


H2O

by Joodiff



Series: Joodiff's adult WtD fic from FFN [2]
Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, PWP, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 16:45:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boyd and Grace have reached a new stage in their relationship, but they're already late for work and - oops - her house only has one bathroom...</p>
<p>
  <i>Adult content. Don't like, don't read.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	H2O

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gemenied](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemenied/gifts).



> Author’s Warning: Complete PWP rated MA for strong language and explicit sexual content. Broad-minded adults only, please.
> 
> A/N: ‘Tis all Geminied’s fault. Blame her. She made me do it. Grateful thanks to all the WtD friends who are so nice to me.

**H 2O**

By Joodiff

One of the fundamental problems with the average Victorian semi- – or the average Victorian terrace, come to that – is that the original design does not incorporate a bathroom. Modern home-owners usually circumvent this problem by losing a bedroom entirely, or by substantially reducing the size of one or more bedrooms. The subsequent creation of a dedicated, internal bathroom is a tidy sort of solution. People in the twenty-first century do not want to walk to a cold, dark and inevitably spidery convenience at the end of the garden to answer the call of nature, nor do they want to bathe in a tin tub in the kitchen. However, the average Victorian semi – or terrace – generally lacks the room to perform the same spatial conjuring trick more than once. And so it is in Grace Foley’s comfortable and cosy North London home. One bathroom. Just the one. And for the last however many years, this has not been a problem.

It is day four – or possibly day five, if counting by sunsets – of an entirely new and exciting phase in a very established relationship. And although both of them are certainly more than old enough to know better, they are still happily lost in the obsessive let’s-just-tear-off-our-clothes-and-do-it-right-here-and-now stage. Although sometimes they forgo the let’s-just-tear-off-our-clothes bit in favour of getting straight to the doing-it-right-here-and-now bit. Allegedly, it’s entirely inappropriate behaviour for people of their age, but, frankly, neither of them actually cares. Being in love is good. Being simultaneously in love and lust is utterly sublime.

But today is Wednesday and therefore a working day. And both of them managing to sleep peacefully straight through the alarm as a direct consequence of the energetic and possibly over-ambitious exertions of the preceding night brings them face-to-face with the single bathroom conundrum.

So here they are, Peter and Grace, supposedly mature and sensible colleagues, but illicitly partnered, heading inevitably towards late for work and still in the delightful, totally enraptured let’s-just-tear-off-our-clothes-and-do-it-right-here-and-now stage of an unexpected and rather wonderful transition from friends to lovers – and there is only one bathroom in the house.

Predictably enough, late for work is about to become _very_ late for work.

-oOo-

There is nothing else Grace can usefully do. Every task that can possibly be accomplished prior to her customary morning ablutions has been done, the clock is ticking remorselessly and still her bathroom remains stubbornly occupied. She wonders how a man with a full beard who consequently doesn’t need to spend time shaving can possibly need to spend so long in the bathroom. It’s not a question that bears close scrutiny. Some things are better left mysterious. But she’s damned sure that he’s quite vain enough to waste at least some of the time critically appraising himself in the mirror, regardless of the non-shaving.

The bathroom embargo is a tacit one. Her patience is wearing thin. And it’s not as if she hasn’t seen it all before. At extremely close quarters, most of it.

Grace prowls the tiny landing for a few moments longer, listening to the sound of drumming water and over-exuberant splashing. Peter Boyd is a one-man bathroom disaster, quite capable of soaking everything within a large radius, and he doesn’t seem to understand anything but the shower’s fearsome blast-your-skin-off setting. It’s one of those faintly endearing things that will probably become intensely irritating in the fullness of time. She’s grateful, however, that he is not musically inclined. Thank God, Boyd does not sing in the shower. Or ever, in fact.

Giving him one last chance, Grace bangs loudly on the bathroom door. “Boyd. Boyd, for God’s sake… it’s almost half-past eight…”

There’s no reply. She expects he will claim not to have heard her over the sound of the shower running. Lowering her voice to a mutter, she says, “On your own head be it…”

The bathroom door’s not locked. Opening it, she edges into the room carefully. There’s a lot of steam, and the partially-open window is streaming with condensation. And suddenly Grace isn’t thinking about how late she’s going to be for work. No, all Grace is thinking about – unashamedly – is the sheer amount of exposed male flesh currently on view.

Fair enough, Peter Boyd is not a young man, and true, he’s definitely stockier than he used to be, but as far as Grace is concerned, he is still very easy on the eye. He’s tall enough and broad enough through the shoulders to carry all the years extremely well. Good shoulders. Very good. And there’s still a discernible taper from shoulders to chest to waist. Very nice. Distracting, but very nice. Nice buttocks, too. Oh, yes. And nice thighs. And Grace can’t help mentally rolling her eyes at the sheer extent of her own folly. On the other hand, there is a certain distinctly smug satisfaction to be had from the fact that there’s an attractive, naked man in her bathroom. One who is several years her junior.

Boyd turns under the spray, soaping his chest… and freezes just for a moment. Dark eyes regard her with a mixture of mild surprise and sly curiosity. His expression becomes just a little speculative as he asks mildly, “Can I help you…?”

“No,” Grace tells him, leaning up against the sink and folding her arms. “I was just enjoying the view. Do carry on.”

She has no intention of reminding him just how late for work they are going to be.

One of Boyd’s defining characteristics is self-confidence. He looks at her for just a moment longer, then simply… carries on. As instructed. But there is something very deliberate about the way he arches under the water, flexing his shoulders and his spine. Very, very deliberate. And Grace isn’t about to chastise him for it – why would she? He’s sleek and gleaming and the soap makes interesting tracks down the long planes of his body as the water continues to sluice down over him.

No, he’s not a young man, but he once was, and more than a touch of that long-ago athleticism remains. So what if he’s a little heavier – there’s still muscle and symmetry, and Grace likes it. A lot. And it’s quite clear that her bold scrutiny is having the kind of effect on him that’s going to make them even later leaving the house.

-oOo-

Boyd knows exactly how late they’re going to be. But there are advantages to having a formidable reputation for being impatient and irascible. No-one is going to challenge him, no-one is going to question him. No-one will dare. And since he’s the only person in the Cold Case Unit that Grace Foley has to answer to he’s not predisposed to worry about a few lost minutes. Besides, he already works far more hours than he’s paid for. And… But he doesn’t need to justify himself. Not at all.

She’s watching him with a quiet, heated intensity that’s becoming very familiar. He’s starting to know – and love – that look. Grace is far calmer than he is, far more composed, and he almost envies the power that gives her. No-one is surprised when he explodes into fury, but if Grace were ever to do the same thing… And so it is in the intimate moments that they have so eagerly started to share. Boyd doesn’t imagine she’s remotely surprised by how fierce he can be, but it still astounds him just how wild and uninhibited she is capable of being. There never was a man more surprised than Peter Boyd the first time she knocked him flat on the bed and tore into him, devouring him, reducing him to breathless incoherence.

And the memory of it certainly encourages the incipient hardness that her frank appraisal is causing.

Two can play at that game. Casually, oh so casually, Boyd soaps his chest again, creating a good lather. Grace is watching. She’s watching intently. The water is warm, the soap is slippery, and the blood is very definitely all heading in the right direction. Chest, done. Stomach, yeah, done. Lower abdomen where the still-dark trail of short, coarse hairs begins… and, yes, she is assuredly watching. Of course she is. And Boyd doesn’t care whether or not she’s aware of him watching her watching him.

-oOo-

_Dear Lord, he’s not going to… Oh. I see he is..._

Self-assurance is a wonderful thing. And Boyd has it. In spades.

And the only problem is deciding whether to watch the burning, dark eyes that are studying her unapologetically, or whether to watch the slow, erotic and very practised way he is deliberately soaping himself, stroking himself. It’s a tough choice. Really. But there’s a third choice. An altogether more proactive choice.

If you can’t beat him, join him…

-oOo-

He can’t help grinning when Grace takes a step towards him. The look in her eyes – fascinated and hungry – is immensely good for his ego. Not that Boyd’s ego needs any bolstering. But the grin falls away as he sees her hesitate, as does the trace of complacency. He recognises something in that tiny hesitation, and in the expression that flickers briefly across her face. Insecurity. It cuts effortlessly through his sharp arousal, touches him in a very deep, very gentle place. It takes hold of him, and he doesn’t resist it. Whether Grace yet believes it or not, he loves her unconditionally. Loves her for everything she is, everything she ever has been, or ever could be. And it’s in his nature to be incredibly protective towards all the things he genuinely cares about.

Boyd doesn’t think. He simply acts. He steps from the shower and puts his arms around her. He realises, a little late, that the compassionate intent of the gesture is somewhat compromised by the fact that he’s soaking wet – and by the truly unrepentant hard-on that is now trapped between them. More than a little wry, he looks down at her and says, “Sorry.”

But there’s amusement in her blue eyes. Amusement and desire – a very potent mix. He wonders if she has any idea of the strength of the hold she has on him – has had on him for a very long time. Maybe she does, in her own quiet, unassuming way. It surprises Boyd to realise that the thought doesn’t worry him. Grace is not the sort of woman to demand more than he can afford to give and in very many ways she is as stubborn and independent as he is.

Something of his thoughts must show, because she says softly, “So very solemn, Peter.”

Boyd kisses her. Gently at first, but with increasing force as she responds hotly and unequivocally. He feels her fingers tangling in his wet hair, but the sensation is instantly and completely eclipsed by the sensation of her other hand running down his back to his buttocks and then straying purposefully across his hip. It amuses him, how utterly fearless she is, but then that’s gone, too, in the shock and glory of her touch as she wraps her fingers around his arrogant, straining hardness. Boyd is lost. Lost in her, lost in sensation. All he really knows is that Grace is kissing him just as hard and deep as he is kissing her, and that she’s stroking his cock in that hellishly experienced and quite deliberate way that he’s beginning to think he would cheerfully sell his soul for.

Grace breaks her mouth away from his, and it makes him growl in momentary frustration, but almost instantly she’s nipping his throat and flicking her tongue hotly against his skin as the fingers that were wound in his hair start a teasing descent of their own, pausing to brush over one nipple as her mouth reaches his chest. And heads lower.

_Oh, God…_

Boyd’s stomach muscles contract involuntarily. And still her mouth is descending, leaving an invisible trail that leaves fire and havoc in its wake.

_This is not a good idea… Not at our age… This is not going to end well… Oh, fuck…_

All coherent thought abruptly disappears. Concerns about age and decorum, and her knees and his back disappear. There’s just sensation. Her mouth, his heartbeat. Just lips and tongue, cock and balls. Just his fingers in her hair, and white heat that travels through his nerve-endings like forked lightning. And Grace may very well be on her knees, but she gives absolutely no quarter and there is nothing remotely submissive about the way she sucks and licks and offers the tiniest frightening suggestion of teeth.

Tempting though it is, Boyd is not going to let it end like this. He knows – only too well – what she’s capable of doing to him. And just how gleefully she does it. And he knows it really is only going to end one way unless he manages to find enough willpower to reassert himself.

-oOo-

It still catches Grace by surprise, just how strong he is. Insolently, effortlessly powerful. And suddenly she’s back on her feet – and immediately off them again – and Boyd’s the one in control as he gazes up at her with a serenity that’s very definitely feigned.

Suspended a good way from the safe stability of the bathroom floor, she can only laugh and say, “Not very subtle, Boyd.”

“But effective,” he tells her.

Several intriguing possibilities concerning her current position strike Grace at once. With just a little manoeuvring… Speculatively, she says, “Actually, we could just…”

“Forget it,” Boyd advises her. “Twenty years ago, maybe. Nowadays a little external support is in order.”

Looking down at him, Grace raises her eyebrows. “Peter Boyd, are you actually telling me you’re not man enough?”

Deadpan, he asks, “Fancy explaining to our colleagues that we both ended up in hospital because we were going at it like geriatric rabbits, do you?”

“Point taken,” Grace says, wincing slightly at the thought. She strokes his wet hair and adds, “And talking of colleagues… It’s gone half-past eight, and my boss is notoriously bad-tempered, particularly when his staff are late for work.”

“Trust me, Grace,” he says, and there’s a very honest sort of huskiness in his voice. “Right now your boss couldn’t give a damn about how late you end up being.”

She smiles artlessly at him as he lowers her until her feet are back on the cool tiles. “Oh well, in that case…”

Boyd kisses her again, taking his time, and she responds to it easily, and with increasing ardour. He’s pretty damned good at it, in her humble opinion, and there’s something additionally stimulating about the soft bristle of his beard against her skin. Perhaps it’s the irrefutable maleness of it, Grace isn’t sure. But she likes it, and when he drops his head and brushes his lips against her neck she arches against him automatically.

-oOo-

Despite his rebuttal, Boyd can’t quite get the entrancing vision out of his head. Him, standing in the middle of the room, supporting all her weight, Grace with her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, their bodies forcefully locked together. Not a cat’s chance in hell. Not anymore. Not unless he wants to be visiting a chiropractor from now until doomsday. But Boyd is not a man to give in easily, and there are certainly alternatives… For a start, the shower’s still running behind him. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. He’s momentarily caught up in the idea, and maybe he nips her breast just a little too hard because Grace yelps in protest and digs her fingernails sharply into his shoulders.

Perversely, the retaliatory sting of her response only makes his heart beat faster, only fuels the impatient, edgy arousal burning in his blood, and he returns his mouth to her neck as he applies himself to fully divesting her of the light, silky robe that’s already hanging open. Boyd fights the dark, tempting impulse to bite hard enough to leave his mark on her skin; it’s proprietorial, that impulse – nothing at all to do with wanting to hurt her. Quite the reverse, in fact. It’s something very primitive, something territorial; a statement of ownership and intent. And he knows exactly how furious Grace would be if he dared, if he actually dared.

Her sudden, complete nakedness distracts him, shifts his attention away from all the dark things he doesn’t like in himself. He raises his head, looks into her eyes. They look very blue in the cool morning light. And he sees just a touch of her earlier insecurity reflected there. Insecurity tempered by a touch of defiance, as if she is challenging him to find every fault and flaw, every tiny imperfection.

Boyd shakes his head, and even though he knows there’s no way she can possibly understand the _non sequitur_ , he echoes his earlier thoughts, says, “Everything you are, Grace. Everything you are.”

-oOo-

Grace understands. She understands immediately, and the simple words mean so much more to her than any flowery, over-affected declaration of love and desire. Boyd is not a man for words, never has been, never will be. In such things he is quiet, he is reticent – not at all like her. And in a strange way she loves him even more for it.

For a moment they are in limbo, caught between a crazy, altogether inappropriate sort of desire and something much gentler, much more meaningful.

She loves him. And she wants him. Oh, yes, she wants him. Deliberately taking Boyd by surprise, she kisses him, hard and merciless, forcing her tongue into his mouth and glorying in the immediate ferocity of his response. This is not a one-way street, not by any means. The obsession will pass, Grace is sure of that, pass and become something else, something deeper, but while it lasts it seems they are both going to make the most of it. His hands are wandering, exploring, quick and urgent, and she revels in it. There’s nothing feigned about the wildness in his eyes, or the solid, potent hardness pressing against her stomach. He wants her just as much as she wants him. It’s flattering, it’s arousing, it’s… sublime.

They are past words. They are creatures of instinct. She feels him reach between her thighs, his fingers clever and artful, and she reaches for him again, squeezing and stroking, and it isn’t clear which of them is breathing faster. Grace isn’t at all surprised when he takes hold of her, turns her, pushes her firmly ahead of him towards the shower and the water which is still beating down. That water is warm, but the strength with which it hits her makes her gasp. It’s a gasp that is lost in the kiss that immediately takes her. Boyd is not rough enough to hurt her, but he’s not playing, not any more. Now, he means business, and she can feel it in the tightly-reined aggression in him, in the force he employs to push her back against the shockingly cold ceramic tiles.

Grace can barely admit it even to herself, but at moments like this she likes the raw strength of him, the simple, male arrogance of him. So much for equality and sisterhood. But whatever it is in Boyd that is elemental and primal calls forth a similarly primitive response in her.

He has her cornered, he’s firmly braced and his eyes are blazing. And Grace says a silent prayer of thanks for the sheer physical prowess of the man, because it’s been far too many years since she could manage the necessary acrobatics alone. Yet, her back’s against the tiles – warming under her now – and her legs are round his waist, and she can keenly feel the place where they meet, the place where she is soft and he is hard.

She doesn’t think he’s going to be gentle, and she’s right. But that’s good – gentleness is not what she wants, not here and now. Grace is as hungry and as desperate as he is, and the pummelling spray of water only adds a greater erotic frisson, stinging her skin, hardening her nipples even more. Boyd shifts his hips slightly, finding the right angle, and then he bucks into her so hard and so swift that her moan becomes a genuine scream. He’s growling, fingers digging into her hips as he starts to thrust, deep and strong.

-oOo-

In that moment, in that first incredible moment of heat and sensation, she is almost too wildly, intensely beautiful. There isn’t much room in Boyd’s head for coherent thought – he’s too biologically hard-wired to his cock and balls for that – but on some level he simply knows that she has no idea what he sees. Has no idea that he’s lost in her, that he would fight for her, die for her.

She’s hot and tight and slick, and he can feel the deliberate contraction of muscle that’s artfully designed to make him fully aware that he’s not the only one who can lead this frantic dance. He thrusts, she squeezes, and the incessantly pounding water stings and stimulates them both. Her eyes are tightly closed, and he wonders what she’s thinking, wonders what she’s feeling.

Not breaking his rhythm, Boyd asks gruffly, “Good…?”

His voice is a little rougher than he intends, but it doesn’t seem to bother Grace. She opens her eyes, and her answer is just as hoarse, “God, yes…”

He shouldn’t grin, but he does. In triumph and satisfaction, and – bizarrely, given the carnality of the situation – in pure, simple affection. Boyd shifts slightly, changing angle, and his grin only increases as he sees and hears her gasp. Things are going his way, and he’s not enough of a gentleman to deny just how smug he feels as she starts to shake. It’s subtle at first, just a quivering tension in her muscles, but he can feel it building.

_Christ, look at her… Just look at her…_

And again, her nails bite into his shoulders. Hard.

-oOo-

It astounds her, just how fast and how easily her body segues into the final, shattering release. True, he’s big and he’s powerful and he knows exactly what he’s doing, but even so, it takes Grace by surprise, the speed and force of it. She bites him, she claws him, and she doesn’t care. Boyd curses, but he doesn’t break his strong, powerful rhythm, and he relentlessly pushes her through the last moments of that shuddering, wonderful oblivion of incredible, molten sensation. She’s still contracting around him when he throws his head back and roars, the last few thrusts losing coordination, becoming sharp and desperate as he comes with exactly the same breath-taking force. They cling hard together, neither of them capable of a word. And maybe it’s the single most intimate moment of the whole morning.

The frantic beating of her heart starts to slow, and she’s eventually able to release one hand from the solid width of his shoulders. His head is resting against her neck and his hair is wet, darkened a little by the water, and Grace combs her fingers through it, smiling as she feels the answering caress of his lips against her skin. The frenzy is gone, thoroughly burned out of them both, leaving just satisfaction and a deep sense of contentment.

It won’t last, she knows that, but this is the moment when he is at his gentlest, his most indulgent. This is the moment when he would give her anything, forgive her anything. It gives her the chance to take a gamble, to say softly and humorously, “Such a big man, such a daunting reputation.”

Boyd straightens up a little, obviously attempting to ease the pressure on his back, and his expression is mild, a little curious. “And…?”

Grace doesn’t bother to hide her smile. “And you’re a real pussycat at heart, aren’t you, Peter?”

“Dear God,” he says, tone and expression equally disgusted. “I have no idea where you get some of your ideas from, Grace.”

She’s going to win, she just knows it. “You are.”

“Enough,” Boyd grumbles, disentangling himself and supporting her as her feet find the slippery floor of the shower. “You’re late for work, remember? And your boss is a bad-tempered pain in the arse.”

“Oh, he is. Absolutely. But sometimes he’s a pussycat.”

Something lights in his dark eyes. A touch of wry, self-deprecating humour. “Yeah, okay. He is. Now get a bloody move on, woman.”

“Boyd…?”

“What?”

“Sometimes I really like you.”

“Oh, for God’s sake…” he says, the words a very definite growl. But he kisses her swiftly and decisively before he reaches for the soap.

-oOo-

And here they are, Peter and Grace, arriving very, very late for work. Together. He’s got that look on his face, the one that suggests he’s just waiting for an excuse to tear someone apart, and she’s looking incredibly composed and serene. There is space between them, even when he stops to open the door for her. She murmurs her thanks and he nods just a little curtly. They are as they always are.

Maybe the colleagues waiting for them wonder about the odd coincidence of them arriving simultaneously late, but no-one’s going to ask. And the lovers are certainly not going to tell. Maybe one day, in the far distant future, but not on this day.

But his back is aching and her knees are sore. And life is good.

\- the end -


End file.
